


The Adventure Of The Two Coptic Patriarchs

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [83]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Egypt, F/M, France (Country), Government Conspiracy, M/M, Murder, Politics, Religion, Slow Burn, Trains, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 15:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15732141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: In war, the lives of mere mortal men are expendable – whether that be a war between nations or a war between different branches of government with each determined to come out on top. Whatever the cost...





	The Adventure Of The Two Coptic Patriarchs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KezialovesShandJohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KezialovesShandJohn/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

My brother had a large number of cases in 'Ninety-Nine, but only four are really worthy of note. Curiously the two that were later published - _The Retired Colourman_ and _Charles Augustus Milverton_ \- were each in their turn undertaken at the same time as the two that could not be released to the Nation. The first of these latter was, sorry to say, yet another story of government malfeasance, and it frankly unsettles me that in our supposedly enlightened age (do not mention the Great War) so many people see government as the answer to everything. 

As Kean so rightly says, only if one asks a stupid question.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

It was a quiet morning in 221B Baker Street, with even the normally loud streets outside pleasantly silent. I picked up the _“Times”_ , and was struck by the single word emblazoned across its front page.

“’Fashoda!’” I read. Holmes looked up at me.

“Pardon?” he said.

“The French have tried to seize a Nile crossing at some place called Fashoda”, I said, “and General Kitchener has caught them there.”

At the start of the month our brave soldiers had won a decisive victory over the forces of the Mahdi, the religious zealot who had held sway in the Sudan for so long. Less than fifty British dead for over ten thousand of the enemy, with thousands more captured. The rebels would most likely regroup under a new leader but their position now was untenable. However, our preoccupation had, as I had feared it might, tempted the French into a dash to secure the upper Sudan, our obvious next point of advance. A small force of barely a hundred men had raised the tricolour on the great river, and I silently thanked God for a sensible general like Kitchener (and his French counterpart) for holding off. For now. 

“There is the possibility that the French may stand their ground”, Holmes observed. “There are some in Paris who resent their informal alliance with England. Berlin must be delighted at this development.”

I could not but agree, little knowing how that distant desert stand-off was to have repercussions for us in the very near future.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Berlin almost certainly was delighted with the discord between London and Paris, but Mr. Mycroft Holmes most definitely was not. I had thought his unwelcome arrival in Baker Street was merely to grouse about his extra workload, but it turned out that he wanted Holmes’ help on a case. 

At the start of the month”, he said, “the British warship _”HMS Ajax”_ departed from Alexandria. It had on board two Coptic patriarchs, Father Benedictus and Father Fidelis, and it made landfall at Plymouth exactly one week later. It had been arranged that a member of the government would greet the men and escort them to London for talks, but he contrived to miss them and they set off for London on their own.”

“Why were they coming to London?” Holmes asked.

“ _That_ is classified information”, his brother said crisply. 

Holmes pointed across the room. “And that is a door. Kindly close it behind you when you leave!”

His brother scowled but was quickly resigned to his fate. I did not bother to hide my smirk.

“All right”, our visitor grumbled. “The current Egyptian government is making things difficult for the Coptic Church, to the point where there is some talk of an insurrection. Probably nothing, but bearing in mind the situation at a certain riverside trading post just now the British Army is severely overstretched. We cannot afford trouble in Egypt whilst our backs are turned.”

“I take it that something has befallen these men?” Holmes asked. 

“They are both dead”, his brother said grimly. “And when their colleagues back in Pharaoh Land find out, there will be hell to pay!”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“Of course the two priests were safe on board one of Her Majesty’s ships”, Mr. Mycroft Holmes said. “But it does not take a genius to know that few ships travelled from Egypt to here last month, and someone could easily have had agents at Plymouth ready and waiting.”

“The French?” I ventured.

“Who else?” our guest said morosely, looking critically at the proffered whisky. “Probably out of the country by now, whisked away by a fast yacht.”

“What exactly happened?” Holmes asked.

“That was the strange part”, our guest said. “The ship's officers escorted the priests as arranged to the Great Western Railway's station in Plymouth, where they got on the express to London. Unfortunately their guides did not wait to see it leave. After they had gone the priests must have changed their minds and gone to the Devonport station of the London & South Western Railway. The Lord alone knows why!”

“That seems bizarre”, I said. “The South Western route is slower, let alone the fact that they were in a strange country.”

“True”, our guest agreed. “I checked, and there were no accidents or delays on the Great Western line that would have caused any change of plan. The train ran to time until the conductor entered their compartment around Okehampton and found both men dead, each shot with a single bullet to the heart.”

Holmes nodded.

“Did the train make any stops before they were found?” he asked. Our visitor shook his head.

“They were not yet in Okehampton”, he said, “although it had slowed to a walking pace at Lydford where they crossed onto South Western tracks officially. Someone waiting _could_ have boarded the train there; it always slowed at that point. The line up to there is owned by another company, the Plymouth, Devonport and South Western Junction.”

Holmes looked across at me.

“I need you on this case, doctor”, he said. “Are you able to go west with us?”

“Of course”, I smiled, feeling even more warmed by his brother's scowl. 

“Bring your medical bag”, Holmes advised. “And your gun. I have a feeling that you will need one or the other, possibly both.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The bodies of the two priests had been taken to Okehampton police station, so it was to that town that we directed ourselves. The recent sudden thaw had caused some disruption with flooding, but our railway companies were used to such things and all was well as we sped westwards. It had of course proven impractical to detain everyone on a ten-coach express, so Mr. Mycroft Holmes was probably right in that the culprits had got away. I did not see just what precisely he expected Holmes to be able to do, or what my friend hoped that I could achieve, but I was determined to do my best by him.

It would be fair to describe our reception at the police station in the pleasant little moorland town as mixed. Sergeant Venables was an avid reader of my stories and was clearly delighted at Holmes’ involvement in the case. The same could not be said of Doctor Morris, the local doctor who had made the initial examination of the bodies. He seemed annoyed that the sergeant had given permission for me to examine the bodies as well, and was clearly striving to hold his tongue. Before I went in Holmes pulled me to one side.

“Watson”, he said in a low voice, “I do not want to prejudice your examination. But I wish you to pay particular attention to the teeth of the two men in there, and tell me _exactly_ what you find.”

I did not see the relevance of that, but nodded my agreement and went inside to begin my examination. Both priests had been in their forties, Father Benedictus the slightly older of the two. He had also been the healthier although both men were a little underweight. I examined their mouths with great care but could not find anything unusual about their teeth, both sets seeming in a reasonable condition for men of their ages.

I had almost done when I spotted something that _was_ unusual, a small tattoo on Father Benedictus’ ankle. It seemed to be a word of some sort, and I could make out what seemed to be ‘kerenza’. I wrote the word down in my notebook and went back out to report my (lack of) findings.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“You found something”, Holmes said as we walked down the High Street. His brother was in the post office, sending a telegram.

“I found nothing about the teeth”, I said. “I looked closely, but they were perfectly normal for what men of their age should have had.”

To my surprise that news seemed to depress my friend.

“I was afraid of that”, he said heavily. “Was there anything else?”

“Yes”, I said, taking out my notebook. “One of them had this word tattooed on his ankle. Very small writing; I almost missed it.”

His face darkened even more.

“It is as I suspected”, he said. “There is little more that we can do here. We should get to our train.”

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“Very!” he said.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“Well?” Mr. Mycroft Holmes asked, as we sat down in our compartment and waited for the train to set off.

“I am not a performing dog, trained to obey your every command”, Holmes said tartly. “I have a question. You said that you sent someone down to meet the priests off the boat, but that they failed to arrive. What happened there?”

“A mess-up”, his brother groused. “The man had a minor crisis at home and missed the express. By the time he reached Exeter he knew that he would not make it to Plymouth before the men left there, so he decided to wait for the train that he knew they would be on.”

“Hmm”, Holmes said. “Who was the man in question?”

Mr. Henry Goodchild”, Mr. Mycroft Holmes said. “Dull as ditch-water, but dependable enough.”

“Your department?” I asked.

“Hell no!” Mycroft Holmes exclaimed forcibly. “My talents cannot be bound to one department.”

Nor your ego, I thought cattily. Holmes pressed his fingers together in thought. 

“What is the most likely outcome from the priests’ murders?” he asked. “Apart that is from the instability along the Nile.”

“The British government will look foolish when it comes out”, his brother admitted. “People will say that they should have protected these men, despite the impracticalities involved. And the War Office will gloat mightily. I would say that they would be unbearable, but they passed that some time ago.”

“Children all!” Holmes sighed.

“Why?” I asked. 

“There are those in the War Office who want to take over the Foreign Office and make one super-department of state”, Mr. Mycroft Holmes explained. “The never-ending game of turf wars.”

“Except that if the French do not back down at Fashoda, we may have the wars without the turf”, Holmes said. “I presume that the War Office would welcome the chance to take down the French a peg or four, whilst the Foreign Office is advising caution?”

“True”, his brother said glumly. “It was a waste of time dragging you down here. I do not know why I thought you could help.”

“On the contrary”, Holmes said. “I can point you in the direction of those two men's’ killers – or at least the people who paid them – quite easily.”

The train chose that moment to start, and Holmes’ brother nearly fell to the floor in surprise.

“How?” he demanded.

“When we get to Exeter”, Holmes said, “the doctor and I are going to double back and head to Plymouth via the Great Western Railway.”

“But why?” his brother demanded. “Tell me!”

“Because whoever arranged this will certainly have someone in Okehampton who will have monitored our arrival and departure”, Holmes said, “and I wish to create for them a pleasant little illusion that we are headed back to the Great Wen. In reality the doctor and I will hopefully spend today and tomorrow finishing the case for you.”

His brother scowled at him.

“You are not going to tell me, are you?” he sulked.

“Not just yet”, Holmes said. “But I will give you a clue.”

“What?”

“Love is the answer!”

The scowl became a glare. I tried to suppress a chuckle but failed again. Pity.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

I was surprised when we arrived at Plymouth Station that Holmes insisted on checking into the luxurious Great Western Hotel there. However he insisted that he had his reasons.

“I am looking for one person in particular, the one who masterminded this whole thing”, he said. “I have reason to suspect that this person would only have stayed at the very best hotel in town.”

We were fortunate. Miss Gussett, the receptionist at the hotel, melted under Holmes' charm and was eager to help. He described a gentleman he was looking for who had travelled down from London, and would probably have requested the best room they had. Yes, there had been a gentleman who had arrived just over a week ago and was indeed still there, due to leave the following morning. A 'Mr. J. Smith' in the master suite. Holmes thanked her profusely and we retired to our own rooms.

“Who is this Mr. J. Smith?” I asked. “I assume that that is not his real name?”

“I would be very much surprised if it was”, Holmes said. “Unfortunately he is likely to stay in his room right through to his departure, but we may have an opportunity to search it whilst he is at breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“Search it for what?” I asked.

“For his real identity”, Holmes said grimly. “If we are to procure any sort of justice, we must have that before he leaves. I dare say I could telegraph to Miss Day and ask her to find out, but I happen to know that her father died last week so do not wish to disturb her unnecessarily. We shall do this ourselves.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

As Holmes had expected his quarry ordered breakfast to be brought to his room the following morning. I went down to breakfast alone, but I had barely ordered when the fire alarm went off and, like the other guests, I hurried out to the front of the hotel. It was raining slightly and there was general grumbling as we waited for the all clear. 

It turned out that the cause of the disturbance was some debris at the bottom of the lift shaft that had caught alight and it was soon dealt with, although the twenty minutes that we had to wait seemed a lot longer. Even though I was fully dressed unlike some of the guests I was glad to be back inside, to find that my friend had joined me at my table.

“All is well?” I asked in a low voice.

“Very”, he whispered back. “That was the only way to get 'Mr. J. Smith' out of his room.”

“So you know who he is?” I asked.

“I am rather afraid that I do”, he said. “This is one case when finding the guilty party is only half the battle. If we are to see justice done then we shall have to play as dirty a game as our adversaries, something that I am loath to do but which must be done.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Our journey back to Baker Street was mostly in silence; Holmes did not expect 'Mr. J. Smith' to return to town until later in the day. Once we were back in our rooms he immediately dispatched a telegram to someone but did not tell me who it was. I took my notebook and sat on the couch, in order to begin writing up the notes from the day's events. To my surprise he came and sat down beside me, then lay down so his head was resting against my leg, his legs draped over the couch's arm. I smiled down at him but he looked worried.

“Sometimes I hate this!” he muttered. “I can empathize as to how some policemen go bad when they have to deal with the criminal classes all the time.”

We sat there for some little time until we heard the sound of someone ascending the stairs. Holmes sighed and stood up, frowning as he went to take a place by the mirror. There was a knock at the door.

“Enter”, Holmes called out.

The man who entered our room looked distinctly ill-at-ease. He could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty, was sharp-faced and dressed in what were obviously quality clothes. 

“You sent for me, Mr. Holmes?” he said, sounding distinctly annoyed.

“Be seated, Mr. Collington”, Holmes said. “Our business will not detain you for long, I assure you.”

“I was not aware that we had any 'business'”, the visitor sniffed.

“Well, if you do not wish to talk to me, there is always the Marquess of Lansdowne”, Holmes said dryly. “I am sure that he would be _fascinated_ to hear what is going on in the lower reaches of the government department that he ostensibly leads. And I am personally acquainted with the prime minister, dear Lord Salisbury, for whom I sorted a little matter some years ago. I do not think that either of them would take well to what you have done. Not forgetting the London papers.....”

The man gasped.

“You would not dare!” he said angrily. “In the current climate that would make you a traitor!”

“I take no lessons on morality from a man with blood on his hands!” Holmes snapped back.

The two stared at each other for several moments before our visitor slumped in his chair.

“How much do you know?” he demanded.

“I know that you are in public the minister responsible for foreign intelligence”, Holmes said crisply. “I also know that, far from the public eye, you are head of Department Two.”

“What on earth is Department Two?” I asked. 

“A government office dedicated to pursuing the goals of the British Empire and the War Office”, Holmes said. “Not necessarily in that order, and regardless of minor irrelevancies such as morality and the law.”

“You do not understand government”, our visitor stated bluntly. “One cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs.”

(I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that that was a stock phrase of government, in that they felt it excused just about any foul behaviour.)

“I understand murder”, Holmes said. “Double murder in this case. I understand what you did. And I fully understand what you are going to do over the next few weeks, unless you want this whole sorry mess blown all over front pages across this scepter'd isle.”

The man scowled.

“There are some few facts that I do not know about this case”, Holmes said. “You will provide them and then I will tell you my demands. I am sure that you believe you have covered your tracks, sir, but like you, I can play a low game when needed. Deal fairly with me and you will continue as you have been. Try to cross me and I will destroy you.”

He did not raise his voice at all, but there was a tone of absolute conviction about his words. And our guest could see it.

“Say on”, he said flatly.

“The two priests?” Holmes asked.

“Both on a sabbatical in Georgia.”

“The names of the two men?”

“James Penruddock and William Kirrin”, our guest said. 

“What were they doing in Egypt?” Holmes asked.

“They were both mining engineers. Seconded for a year to work abroad, on very generous rates.”

“Except that they are now both dead”, my friend pointed out. “You employ a most curious use of the word 'generous'.”

“Who were these men?” I asked, bewildered.

“You knew them better as Father Benedictus and Father Fidelis”, Holmes said. 

“What?” I exclaimed. He turned to me.

“This began, like I said back in Devonshire, as a turf war. The War Office wanted a showdown with the French, and had been hoping the current confrontation with them at Fashoda would escalate into open warfare.”

“But the French are our allies!” I protested.

“Old attitudes die hard”, Holmes said grimly. “Remember, the Prussians were our allies for over a century before the balance of power abruptly changed across Europe, even in our own lifetimes. Many at the War Office doubtless hanker for the olden days, Waterloo and Trafalgar and all that. They view the Foreign Office as untrustworthy.....”

“They are!” our guest cut in. Holmes looked pointedly at him and he subsided.

“So when they learnt that their rivals had been entrusted with the safe conduct of two Coptic Patriarchs, they saw a chance to cause them grief. Even if it involved the incidental murder of two innocent men.”

“The real priests are still very much alive”, our guest said defensively.

“Unlike Mr. Penruddock and Mr. Kirrin”, Holmes observed. “To continue. The real Father Benedictus and Father Fidelis are persuaded, through whatever means, to decamp to Georgia for a time. Had this ramp succeeded I doubt they would have lived to see any return to their homeland; such 'loose ends' tend to get picked off by you omelette-makers. Mr. Penruddock and Mr. Kirrin are meanwhile told that, for some reason, they need to pass themselves off as these Coptic priests all the way to England. I would assume that a large sum of money is promised for their co-operation. They are also told that they need only go as far as getting on the train at Plymouth, and that once they reach Okehampton they can double back. Unfortunately for them it is imperative for the War Office that two dead bodies be laid at the feet of their political rivals – their bodies! The men are shot soon after leaving Plymouth, their assassin leaving the train at Lydford where the train always slows at the nominal change of railway company.”

I stared in shock.

“You are guessing”, our guest said sulkily. Holmes quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Mr. Paul Clabon”, he said.

Our visitor went pale.

“It was typical of your operative that, since the British taxpayer was paying for it, he checked himself into Plymouth's best hotel for a week”, Holmes said with an unpleasant smile. “Doubtless others of your ilk were also responsible for delaying the Foreign Office agent sent to escort the men.”

Our visitor remained silent.

“I took the precaution of entering Mr. Clabon's room this morning during an impromptu fire alarm at our hotel”, Holmes said. “Very sloppy, sir. If you are pretending to be someone else, keeping your real identity in your wallet is highly inadvisable.”

“What do you want?” our guest asked snappily. “I thought that you and your friend here were all for Empire. You cannot go to the press.”

“Sir, your department has murdered two innocent men!” Holmes said angrily. “Two lives taken for the basest of reasons. International affairs frankly bore me. I can and will expose you for what you are. However if you undertake certain restorative measures, then for the sake of the Empire I shall desist.”

“Such as?”

“Who are the next of kin of the two men?” Holmes asked. “I advise you to be honest, sir. You will not like the consequences if you are not.”

Our visitor gulped.

“Penruddock was married with one son. Kirrin was single, living at home with his mother.”

Holmes wrote some numbers on a piece of paper and passed it over to our guest, who raised his eyebrows.

“An anonymous benefactor is going to give a large sum of money to the next of kin of both men”, Holmes said. “Mr. Clabon's employment will be terminated as of today; sacking, not resignation. And Mr. Collington, please understand this. Should you fail to meet these conditions in every particular, I too have some 'interesting' friends who could make _your_ life distinctly unpleasant, if not somewhat shorter. You will observe that I have not demanded _your_ resignation - yet.”

Our guest swallowed at the threat.

“It shall be done”, he said. “Good day, gentlemen.”

He left hurriedly. Holmes sighed and slumped back to his former position. I ruffled his hair again, and he leant into me even further.

“Murder by the British government”, I said softly. “They are all at it!”

“We have so little proof”, he said. “I am sure that the bodies have already been disposed of, and any investigation could easily be derailed. No, this is the best solution that I could have wrung out of this sorry mess. Though I still feel dirty.”

He sighed unhappily.

“What did you mean when you asked me to look at the men's teeth?” I asked, hoping to distract him.

“Egyptian food is often laden with the desert sands”, he explained. “It wears down the local people's' teeth more than usual.”

“But these men came from Egypt”, I objected.”

“Yes”, he said, “but there were working for the British Army who source their food supplies from elsewhere. Had they been real Coptic priests, their teeth would have been worn down.”

“Oh”, I said. “And the mystery word, 'kerenza'? It sounds almost Italian.”

He chuckled.

“That was what helped me be certain”, he said. “It is a Cornish word for 'love' or 'beloved'. Not something a real Coptic Patriarch would likely have on his ankle.”

“You did the best you could”, I said reassuringly. He smiled at me.

“Thank you friend”, he said. “That means a lot to me.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Postscriptum: Although Mr. Collington (i.e. the British government) did indeed pay sizeable sums to the next of kin of the two men who his department had dispatched into the next world, he foolishly tried to circumvent Holmes's other condition by sacking Mr. Clabon and then getting him rehired the following week by another government department. Holmes told me this a few days later, after I read to him how a certain War Department functionary had been caught by a policeman in a most compromising position and had been summarily dismissed, the second loss to the government in quick succession after someone they had recently re-hired had been found floating in the Thames with a dagger in his back. It seemed quite appropriate, in my opinion.   
Mercifully in light of the war that then lay less than two decades into the future the French backed away from Fashoda, saving the undeclared Anglo-French alliance. The British government (for once) handled matters well; there was a general realignment of borders and interests to the French advantage in Africa and the town where they had suffered such humiliation was adroitly renamed Kodok, which name is still bears today.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
